


The Darkest Hour

by louciferish



Series: Long Live the Kings [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Consensual Kidnapping, Happy Ending, Katsuki family - Freeform, M/M, Memory Alteration, Past Character Death, Rebellion, Victor's Foot Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: A King, held captive by his own crown.A Rebel, leading a war to free the oppressed.A single starlit night, after which everything changes.





	The Darkest Hour

**Author's Note:**

> I'd conceived of this story as a piece for the upcoming royalty zine, but didn't end up applying due to scheduling issues. I had to write it anyway. 
> 
> I posted this on tumblr bit by bit over the past 5 weeks as sort of an experiment in tumblr serials and posting things without tags, but it's posted here as a single continuous whole with all the spoilery little tags your hearts may desire :D Enjoy

The day of Yuuri’s coronation was an extravagant affair, judging by the pictures. Yuuri himself doesn’t remember much of it.

After all, he was only a boy of seven at the time. He’d barely begun to recover from the accident that had taken his parents, and then his sister was gone as well, lost at sea on her first diplomatic mission. He’d had bare weeks to mourn before the banners around the city were hung again, festive garlands side by side with the memorials still lining the streets from the kingdom’s loss.

For the parade, custom dictates the new ruler ride in an open carriage draped with blossoms, smiling and waving out to the common people who fill the roads to see them. At Yuuri’s coronation, the carriage was closed, and the blue velvet curtains drawn tight over the windows. Rumors were flying that the entire Katsuki line was cursed, and besides that, the city’s new boy-king couldn’t be trusted not to weep during his own procession.

Yuuri drew back his curtains precisely once, peering out at the sea of faces surrounding his carriage. As he scanned the crowd, his eyes locked on an older boy who had pushed his way to the front. When he saw Yuuri looking, the boy bounced on his toes, grinning and waving enthusiastically, his long silver hair shining brightly in the celebration candles.

The boy’s expression froze, then fell as he pressed closer, seeking a better glimpse of Yuuri’s tear-streaked face through the little window. Yuuri drew back. He pulled the curtain tight once more, stinging with humiliation.

In all the pomp of the following days, the feasting and dancing and the fabulous ceremonies, this is what Yuuri remembers—not the dazzling costumes, nor the weight of his father’s crown as it was balanced on his small head, but the silver-haired peasant boy with his bright blue eyes.

Yuuri may be the most powerful person in the kingdom now, but in his dreams, he trades places with that boy.

-

“The last skirmish on the southern border was-”

“You know these traitors,” Chancellor Hudson spits, interrupting the advisor who was speaking. “They have no honor. They clearly have no _loyalty_.”

“Over 200 soldiers lost.” Bishop Saito shakes his bald head, making a half-hearted feign at pity before his true concern shines through. “Good, trained soldiers, too. We’ll have to conscript more of the peasants to fill in the ranks, and that’s not even counting the warlocks they got. Harder to replace, warlocks.”

Beside the grand feasting hall’s mural wall, King Yuuri stares into his full glas like a scrying bowl, swirling the pinkish liquid inside with a spoon. He pretends—as always—that he doesn’t hear the comments. As a ruler, the thing he’s gotten best at is pretending.

“And which peasants do you think we have left to conscript?” Duke Chen snarls, banging his fist on a table as the red on his nose climbs for his hairline. “Drunkards! Idiots! The best fodder is all either dead or has joined the rebellion!”

One of the other men shushes him before his voice can rise too much. “Keep it down,” he mutters. “If the servants hear you, they’ll be gone next.”

“We’re back to the old proposal,” Hudson says. He sounds as if he’s observing a particularly dull game of cards, rather than playing with people’s lives. Anger flashes through Yuuri like a fire, and quickly as it starts, he smothers it. Reacting has never brought him any favor. “Marry the king off. Any new spouse will be honor-bound to send troops to support our efforts.”

“Should have found the boy-king a consort ages ago. Now, the traitors are stronger than ever, and—boy-king or not— _his majesty_ isn’t getting any younger.” 

In the corner, Yuuri winces. The open contempt with which they say his title is new, but at the same time unsurprising. His so-called advisors have made their feelings on him clear as polished glass. Yuuri knew before his fourteenth birthday that the men expected little of him.

His greatest shame is that he’s never managed to prove them wrong. 

Yuuri waits, watching room in silence for a few more moments—just long enough to ensure it isn’t obvious what triggered him to leave, then sets his chalice on the table, its contents still untouched. A kitchen boy darts out of the shadows, spiriting the cup away. Though they haven’t yet reached a point of conflict where Yuuri fears poisoning, he finds it best not to get in the habit of drinking anything his advisors provided, just in case.

None of the old men so much as glance over as the king leaves the room, pushing through the great double doors on his own. When Yuuri was a boy, men kneeled to him, as they’d kneeled to his parents before him. Now, they no longer maintain that fiction.

By the time he reaches his rooms, exhaustion drapes across Yuuri’s shoulders, muffling his movements and making his hand clumsy on the bedroom latch. Once inside, he leans back against the wall and sighs. 

The small fireplace in the corner crackles with warmth, and the covers of his bed are already turned down and waiting, though outside it’s only beginning to get dark. Through the glass doors on his balcony, he can see streaks of purple still fading to black on the horizon line. On his vanity, a small silver tray waits with a few sweet biscuits and a single glass of chilled, colorless liquid. It’s so fresh, the glass hasn’t even begun to sweat. 

Yuuri discards his heavy outer garments and picks up the glass. Only in this room can he let his guard down, and even then only because he has a maid like Yuuko—someone who is not just skilled, but knows to anticipate Yuuri’s needs with the instinct of a family member. 

She’s the closest thing to family Yuuri has left. 

Sighing deeply, Yuuri throws back the drink in a single gulp, squeezing his eyes closed as the alcohol sears his throat. If only the cleansing fire of it would scrub away his memories of the day.

 _200 soldiers lost_ , and that was just “his” side of the conflict. How many civilians? How many on the other side? Regardless of what his advisors might say about them, the rebels killed were Yuuri’s subjects too.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thinks—not for the first time—as he sets his empty glass back on the tray. _A stronger king would protect you. A stronger king would never have let this begin._

The fire in the corner gutters, audibly whipped to its embers, and Yuuri frowns. Beyond his bed, one of the balcony curtains drifts slightly in a breeze. The glass-paned door stands ajar, enough to stir the air and put a chill into his rooms. Yuuri walks over to close it.

It’s the last thing he remembers doing in the castle.

-

Yuuri wakes in darkness. It’s not the dim grey light of his chambers, the edges of furniture visible with the aid of moonlight, but an all-engulfing blackness like he’s never encountered before. He turns his head and feels rough fabric chafe at his cheek. His arms jerk, reaching instinctively to pull the blind away, but he’s trapped, wrists bound tight at his sides. A pull at his ankles tells him his legs are similarly pinned to the chair in which he’s seated. 

Through the muffling layer of cloth swaddling his head, he can hear another person shuffling around nearby.

Yuuri tries to stay still, to reign in the surge of panic that swells from his throat, rushing to the tips of his extremities. If his captors think he’s still asleep, they might be more free with their talk, give him clues as to who they are. But his heart betrays him, pounding in his ears, and his breaths speed up, shallow and gasping, loud as a motor within the confines of the sack on his head.

“Oh good,” an unfamiliar voice says nearby. “You’re awake already.” 

Without delay or ceremony, the cloth is pulled from his face, and Yuuri is left franticly blinking, trying to force his eyes to adjust from blackness to the pale, flickering light in the room. A man is hovering over him, and Yuuri rears back.

He doesn’t know this person. Yuuri quickly scans the other man for clues to his identity, but recognizes nothing. The man is tall and fair, with a soft fall of silvery hair and bright blue eyes. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and soft blue leggings, with a grey vest buttoned over his midsection. At a guess, Yuuri would say he was a merchant—maybe even a minor noble—as his clothes are clean and mended, but far from fine. 

“Welcome, Your Majesty,” the man says, without a hint of the ironic bite Yuuri’s advisors use for his title. He sketches a bow. His smile is pleasant; Yuuri might even find it reassuring, were he not tied to a chair. “Please let me introduce myself. My name is Victor.”

The fire that raced through Yuuri’s limbs as he realized his situation turns abruptly to ice.

 _Victor._ Yuuri’s never seen so much as a photo of the man. He had expected the leader of the rebellion to be much older.

Victor is staring at Yuuri as if waiting for him to say something, but what does he want—an introduction? He’s the one who kidnapped Yuuri. He knows who he has.

Instead, Yuuri looks past him, searching the surroundings for clues as to where he is. The room is small and square, with no windows that he can see. The only light comes from a few flickering torches set in the corners. Stone walls are nearly hidden from view behind stacks of wooden crates and barrels, and there’s a staircase in the corner, leading up. It’s most likely a cellar of some kind—but where?

If only Yuuri could remember the journey here, it might provide some clue as to how far they traveled, but his memory is dark. He doesn’t remember an intruder in his rooms or falling asleep. He remembers the meeting with his council, his chambers, drinking his nightcap, and then-

“What did you put in my drink?” Yuuri asks, unable to keep the bite from his voice. 

Victor’s eyebrows rise, but his smile never falters. “Why, I put nothing in your drink, Sire.” His lips stretch wider. “Yuuko did that.”

Yuuri’s heart sinks. _Yuuko?_ Many servants had left the castle in the past year, and Yuuri suspects some of those joined the rebellion, but his own maid? His _friend_? Yuuri drops his eyes, not wanting to reveal the pain he’s feeling to his kidnapper. 

“Do you remember your coronation?” Victor asks abruptly, and Yuuri’s head snaps up. The rebel stalks back and forth, pacing the floor in front of Yuuri’s chair with both hands clasped behind his back. “Do you remember the parade?”

Yuuri weighs the cost of a response, searching for a motive in the question, and finding nothing obvious. “No,” he answers. “Not really. I was a child, and in mourning.”

“Do you remember your parents?”

Inside Yuuri’s mouth, the taste of his own tongue turns sour. “Of course,” he says. 

He remembers his parents every time he walks the castle halls alone, every time he sits on the carved wooden throne, and every time he wears his father’s crown. His mother peeks out from the petals of the roses in the garden, and his sister’s laughter rings in the sound of hooves in the courtyard. It’s been fifteen years and he still misses them, as well as the light they brought to the kingdom.

Yuuri’s only glad they didn’t live to see what a disappointment he’s become.

Victor’s blue eyes are piercing, watching Yuuri with a focused silence he doesn’t know how to interpret. Tapping one finger on his lower lip, the man weighs Yuuri’s response.

“What do you want with me?” Yuuri asks. 

In lieu of a reply, Victor retrieves the burlap sack from the floor. “We’ll try again later,” he says cryptically. Once again, Yuuri falls into darkness.

-

With the shroud over his face, Yuuri finds it impossible to mark the passage of time. He sleeps. He’s brought food and water, and shadowy figures help him to use the facilities. Most of these times, the bag remains over his eyes, but the hands which guide him have many textures— soft as silk or cracked and weathered. Long nails leave little half moon imprints on his skin, or small, gentle hands guide him, warm against his palms as he stumbles through the dark. 

Victor is the only one he sees. Only Victor pulls the darkness from Yuuri’s eyes—brief flashes of light that sear his vision and leave him blinking away dancing orbs. Each time, Victor comes with a new question, but this is no ordinary interrogation.

Not that Yuuri would be much good if it were. Asked about troop movements or battle plans, Yuuri would have no real answers. He’s never been involved in the war. Instead, the questions are innocuous. 

_What was your favorite childhood toy?_

_What was the name of your dog?_

_Do you remember the ball held for your eighteenth birthday?_

With no reason to hide such details, Yuuri answers honestly, but still the veil descends back over his eyes. What is the right answer, if not the truth?

On one venture, Yuuri tries his hand at diplomacy. “What about you?” he prompts, and Victor’s eyebrows rise as Yuuri turns the question back on him. “What’s _your_ favorite food?”

The man’s blue eyes sparkle, and he flashes a hint of teeth as he laughs. “Oh dear,” he says. “Minako did teach you well, didn’t she?”

Yuuri tries to restrain himself at the sound of his childhood tutor’s name, but the shock of it must show through. Victor shakes his head, bending in close, until their foreheads are nearly touching. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, laughter still bubbling in his tone. “She hasn’t joined the rebellion just yet, but you see—I was taught by _her_ master.” 

Before Yuuri can pry any further into that secret, Victor tilts his head and his smile tightens once more. “But you still haven’t answered my question,” he says. Even as Yuuri cries out, the bag falls back over his eyes.

He sleeps again after that. It’s a restless, broken sleep, but he’s used to those. Yuuri hasn’t slept a full night since the day of his crowning.

A familiar voice wakes him. “I don’t know what to tell you,” it says, and Yuuri strains to shake off the last of his nap, to focus on the conversation. Yuuko sounds troubled, and Yuuri’s first reaction is concern, quickly followed by anger as his conscious mind reminds him of her betrayal. “It’s like I told Mila. There was nothing unusual that night, not that I know.”

“How much was his dose?” Victor prods. “Are you sure you mixed the potion correctly?”

“I don’t-”

“Traitor,” Yuuri snaps through his blindfold, unable to restrain himself any longer with his former friend in the room. Hurt is a trusted companion to him, but he’s never felt such anger before. “Kidnapper! Yuuko-” His voice breaks. “How could you?”

The conversation he interrupted stops entirely. Through the sack, he can only hear muffled gasps and the quick tap of shoes retreating up the cellar steps.

Nearby, Victor sighs. “Oh, Yuuri,” he says. It’s the first time he’s used Yuuri’s name instead of his title. “What am I going to do with you?”

It’s another question Yuuri would like to turn back on the wielder— _What are you going to do with me?_ —but the only response he gets is the sound of Victor’s footsteps, walking away.

-

The next time the bag comes off, it’s much less gentle. Victor’s mouth is already twisted with displeasure, the light in his eyes dim. His tone is perfunctory as he asks, “Where did you last take a holiday?”

“I’ve never taken a holiday,” Yuuri says. “Not since I was a boy. Not since you began this rebellion.”

Yuuri expects anger, even mockery. He doesn’t expect the soft sadness that washes over Victor’s face. “I didn’t begin this,” he says. “In fact, I hope to end it. With your help.”

He lifts the sack again, but Yuuri jerks his head back, the force of it sending the chair screeching out of reach. 

“What do you even want with me?” The King demands an answer, but without much practice being a king, Yuuri thinks his own voice sounds petulant rather than powerful. “Why keep me here, asking these inane questions? Why won’t you let me go back home?”

Victor’s arms drop, and the burlap sack slips to the floor. He reaches out—a firm press of fingertips on Yuuri’s chin, tilting his face up toward the light. The torch’s reflection in Victor’s blue eyes looks like starlight. 

“But Yuuri,” Victor says softly, searching Yuuri’s face as if it’s the only place he can find peace. “You asked me not to let you go.”

 _“Take me with you. I never want to see this place again—please. Don’t make me come back.”_ Yuuri can hear the words, echoing through his head, and just like that, he can _feel-_

_The stiff fabric of Victor’s doublet twists beneath his fingers as Yuuri clutches at his chest. It’s cold enough on his balcony that Yuuri can see their breath cloud and mingle, but it’s worth braving the chill to see Victor like this—warm and wrapped in starlight._

_Yuuri rises up on his toes to speak his next words against Victor’s lips. “I can’t wait any longer.”_

That droplet of memory precedes a flood, and then Yuuri is blinking, shaking his head as Victor stares down at him in apprehension. 

Yuuri tilts his head, smiling up at him as he says, “I can’t believe I’ve been here so long… and you haven’t kissed me.” 

Victor falls to his knees at Yuuri’s feet, his face exploding into a full grin. “Yuuri,” he chants like a prayer as he scrambles for the ropes on Yuuri’s wrists. “Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri, my love—I thought we lost you.”

“No, not that easily.” Yuuri ducks his head as he rubs the blood flow back into his hands. “My mind began resisting the memory potions a few weeks ago. I had to up the dose. I couldn’t resist slipping in front of my advisors, not when we were so close.”

Victor shakes his head. “Well if you had _told_ Yuuko that before she gave you more-” He breaks off the scolding as he frees Yuuri’s remaining leg from its bonds, then raises Yuuri’s foot to kiss his ankle.

Yuuri reaches out, twining his fingers in Victor’s hair as the man looks up through silver lashes, his lips still pressed to Yuuri’s foot. “Hurry up and let me out,” Yuuri says, feeling his veins ignite with love and something even more rare to him— _hope_. “I think we have a war to end.”

-

There are whispers in the streets of the kingdom. 

The king is vanished. 

The king is dead. 

The Katsuki line was always cursed—look at what happened to the others. 

There are other whispers too—whispers of betrayal and regicide, and of the two men who are standing up to the crown, new faces and fresh inspiration among the rebels. 

Change is coming, and transformation. The people buzz with fresh energy, sick of petty games and frail tyranny.

The king is dead. 

Long live the kings.

**Author's Note:**

> Since tumblr is dying, I now have [a public twitter](https://twitter.com/louciferish), but you can still find me on the same name everywhere else too.
> 
> I considered throwing up a prequel ficlet for this as well, but then second-guessed that, so if you feel a screaming need to know what the fuck just happened in detail, let me know!
> 
> Also, go check out the precious ending art by mandolinearts [on twitter](https://twitter.com/mandolinearts/status/1132638359699054592)!


End file.
